


Many Ways

by mssrj_335



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Bittersweet, Language, Major Character Injury, Mentions of past injury, Older Characters, Pre-SAINW, Resolution, Tears, ish, so many tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7536001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssrj_335/pseuds/mssrj_335
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for prompt: character A, though usually stoic, is reduced to tears when B jokes about a near-death experience</p><p>SAINW influences but doesn't have to be era specific!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many Ways

The waiting was the worst.  The question always remained: Would they make it back tonight?  Knowing the boys for years did little to ease the fear that would creep in as hours passed.  Hours could be traitorous and the more that passed, the more your worry grew.  Of course, they were grown now.  They were no longer the brash teenagers they had been before you’d met them.  Age had made them wary and alert, injury made them cautious.  Though you knew they were capable of taking on any threat, sitting with Splinter with a cup of tea in hand did little to ease your fraying nerves.  

 

But, the phone did not ring.  The sirens were quiet out in the night.  Perhaps, just this once, things would not go awry.  

 

 

 

 

 

How you couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

The silence shattered when you heard Raphael’s gruff voice reverberate fearfully around the lair walls.

 

“Sensei!  Incoming!”

 

Immediately, tea was abandoned, dashed upon the stone floor.  Splinter limped behind you as you raced to them.  Whatever had caused the tetchy turtle’s voice to be shot with such distress would absolutely not be good. Raphael stood guard at the door, his sai drawn and eyes narrowed at the corridor. Two more brothers struggled inside at last, supporting the fourth between them.  Even in the flurry of movement and the splashes of darkening blood, you knew exactly who was sagging in the middle.  

 

“Needle Room!” Leonardo cried.  “Now!”

 

You heard Raphael throw the gate closed, locked, but the sound afforded you little comfort.  Michelangelo’s face was distraught, Leo’s set in a grimace, and Raphael looked bleak.  Donatello, hanging limply from his brothers’ shoulders and dragging slightly on the ground, was unconscious.  

 

Stoicism refused to let you speak, and maybe so did the tears threatening to choke you.  Whatever may come, there was work to be done.  Leo and Mikey laid Donatello gingerly on the central table and stepped back.  Leo began pacing, staring steadfastly at his brother’s unresponsive face.  Raph, normally so garrulous, leaned silently against the wall.  Noticing absently that he favored his left leg, you realized he would need attention soon, if the steady trip-trip-trip of blood on the stone was any indication. But not yet.  

 

Perhaps, years ago, you might have been faced with apprehension, even hostility, from the brothers when attempting to repair them as you did.  They often remarked you were much like Donnie in that way, ever able to fix what was broken albeit flesh instead of metal.  The first time you’d met the brothers, they’d nearly held the deserted emergency clinic hostage as you shakily stitched deep slashes on Leo’s face and shoulder. Now, they afforded you their trust.  They had to; they owed it to you.  The world was crumbling as the Shredder continued to gain power.  The last vestiges of resistance were growing smaller every day. This would not be the first time you had saved their lives and it would likely not be the last. 

 

“My sons, what happened?” Splinter asked slowly.  His old voice managed to inject some measure of calm into the tense atmosphere and Leo drew a deep breath.

 

“We were ambushed,” he said quietly, leaning a thick shoulder against the cool, damp stone.  “The distress signal we received was a false lead. Baxter Stockman and company.”

 

You snapped gloves onto your hands and tried to assess the damage as detachedly as you could.  God, there was so much blood.  Deftly, you checked for a pulse and felt your knees wobble when you found it thready and weak.  Don’s skin had a sallow saturation under his olive color.  Through the bloodstains, you saw his body was battered and bruised already.  His brothers had stripped away his gear and your throat tightened to see Donnie looking so vulnerable.  The left top plates on his chest were cracked, as if something had tried to crush him.

 

“They came outta nowhere, man,” Mikey interjected tonelessly.  “They got the drop on us but good.”

 

  There didn’t seem to be much damage beneath the plates but Donnie’s tender side was nearly flayed.  Whatever had struck him in the chest had dragged against his skin and torn it wide.  You delicately traced the ragged edges of the wound, but you couldn’t focus.  

 

Raph snorted and pushed himself off the wall.  “They wouldna got us if you paid more attention,” he growled as he limped forward.  His thick hand pushed Mikey away from the table.  

 

“Hey—”

 

“You were on lookout, how couldja let ‘em get that close?  Can’t ya use your fuckin’ eyes?” 

 

Mikey’s shoulders shook slightly as he looked up at his older brother.  You winced for him; Raph was usually callous with his words but the accusation was particularly vicious. Mikey didn’t deserve that.  The youngest brother opened his mouth then shut it again, as if he might believe what Raphael had said.  Leo stepped in, shoving Raph back until he stumbled back into the wall.

 

“We were all out of line,” Leo said with a snarl, pressing his forearm against Raph’s neck.  “Not one of us listened to Don’s warning and this is where we got him.”

 

Raph’s lip pulled back over his teeth.  He looked ready to snap but that’s when a soft sound came from the table.  All eyes snapped to it.  You drew a sharp breath and waited.  Agonizingly slow, Donnie’s hazel eyes flickered open, dimmed with pain.  That was all you needed to see, all you could stand to see.  From a drawer under the table, you pulled a saline IV and painkillers.  Donnie’s lips turned down in a tiny grimace as the needle punctured the skin beneath his scales. His family stood with bated breath, watching.  After a few minutes, his grimace faded and his expression glazed.  Once you were sure the anesthetic had taken hold, you glanced up at the remaining brothers.

 

“You need to go,” you said quietly, fishing a needle and suture thread from the table drawers.  Mikey looked faintly greener at the appearance of the needle but froze.  Raph gnashed his teeth and strode from the room as fast as his injured leg would allow him.  Splinter laid a comforting hand on Mikey’s forearm and led the youngest brother from the room.  Leo hesitated, absently rubbing the scar on his face as if he were remembering his own old pain.

 

“Are you…sure you’ll be able to do this?” he asked haltingly.

 

You had the knowledge and the experience; trained for the worst in one of the most brutal cities in the world.  You didn’t say anything, you didn’t need to.  You nodded.  Leo let out a breath and shuffled his feet.  He was reluctant to leave, but you knew that if he stayed he’d be an even bigger nervous wreck.  Leonardo blamed himself for every injury, every failure.  It ate him alive when his brothers landed in the Needle Room, that much was certain.  Donatello, as if sensing his brother’s discomfiture, let his head loll in Leo’s direction.  It looked as though he might reach for his brother, but the motion was quickly aborted when pain cut through him.  You lay down your needle and gently grasped Leo’s arm.  The leader looked to you, dazed and powerless.  His expression shook you, but you led him to the door with a reassuring look pasted on your face.

 

“He’ll be alright, Leo,” you murmured.  “I promise.”

 

Leo spared his brother one last look before he nodded and shuffled out the door.  You closed the entryway with a gentle click of the latch and leaned your head against the cold door.  Just…a moment to collect yourself. When you turned back at last, you felt your throat constrict. Don was breathing shallowly, looking at you with glassy eyes. Slowly, you approached, hand out and palm up in supplication. 

 

"Donnie?" you asked softly. 

 

He muttered something, but you couldn't make out what it was. 

 

"Donnie, what did you say? Are you alright?"

 

"This must be a dream," he mumbled faintly. 

 

"Why?" you whispered, gently cupping his jaw. 

 

"Because you're lookin' at me....like that."

 

He reached toward you with his undamaged hand, gently threading his fingers with yours. The action made your breath catch. It was the drugs.  It had to be the drugs. It had always remained a deep and unspoken thing, just how he made you feel, and his actions seemed like from a fevered dream. 

 

"Are...are the painkillers working?" you asked. 

 

"Yeah..."  His reply was more breath than words, but it was enough.

 

You slowly disentangled your hand from his and reached for a sedative even as his lips turned down into a sad, confused frown. It was as though he saw you slipping through his fingers, much like you saw him slipping through yours now. The frailty in his hands twisted your guts into knots. He should have been able to hold you in place had he wanted--and he obviously wanted--but he could not. All of his easy grace and restrained strength had gone. The betrayal of his hands shook him to his core until the sedative started to kick in. As sluggishness invaded his veins, the glossiness of his eyes waned and was slowly replaced with fear. 

 

"Wait," he managed, "please don't go."

 

You snapped. Your heart broke for him and you caved. It was wrong when he was so delirious, it was taking advantage, but you couldn't stop yourself. You held tight to his hand and desperately pressed a kiss to his forehead then to each cheek. Tears welled in your eyes and traced hot, poisonous patterns down your cheeks.

 

"It's ok, Donnie," you murmured into his skin.  "It's ok. You're just going to sleep for a while…  I’m not going anywhere.”

 

"I don't wan-wanna go without...you," he moaned. 

 

You pulled away and traced his jaw. "I'll be here when you wake up," you said softly. "I'll be right here."

 

Your words did not relax him. There was no comfort to be found until the sedatives took hold and dragged him fighting into sleep. At last, you breathed a ragged sigh and tried to master yourself. The needle was threaded, the wound still bleeding. It was time but you weren't ready. 

 

 

\- | -

 

 

It took nearly five hours. 

 

Five hours of meticulous stitching into the wee hours of the morning. But, finally, the wound was closed. A second saline drip had nearly emptied itself. A final cleaning then, you stripped away your bloodied gloves and pulled a chair to Donatello's bedside. Exhaustion washed over you. Perhaps you'd close your eyes, if only for a moment. Then, you'd retrieve his brothers. 

 

The next thing you heard was a stifled moan and a few mumbled words.  The table shook slightly, jarring you where you lay slumped over it. 

 

Donnie was awake.  

 

Shit, that meant you'd been asleep for some time. The sedatives were dosed to ten hours. Blearily, you looked around the room, trying to get a sense of time. Jesus, what time even was it? Sitting on the repurposed tool bench, were two glasses of water. Evidently, his brothers had been inside but hadn't thought it necessary to wake you. Don mumbled again and drew your attention. His skin was still pale, whitish, but not nearly as much as it had been. 

 

"Donnie?" 

 

No response. He wasn't awake, only thrashing slightly and murmured under his breath.

 

"Donnie!" you called again. 

 

Gently, you placed a hand on his shoulder and shook. His eyes flashed as awareness flooded back. You thought for a moment he might lash out, that the pain and disorientation might momentarily make him forget who and where he was. Instead, he drew a ragged breath and clutched at your arm like it was his last lifeline. Your name tumbled over and over on his tongue; he seemed incapable of making another coherent sound. 

 

"Shh,"  you said softly, thumb absently stroking the scales on his hand in a soothing manner. "It's alright. You're home."

 

"What...what happened?" 

 

You drew your hand from his grasp and smoothed it over his wrinkled brow. "What do you remember?"

 

Don tried to straighten and sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. "Not much," he said faintly as he slumped back onto the table. "I remember the mission.  Baxter Stockman. Something hit me then, I was here. And..."

 

You looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish, but nothing more came. Instead, he deftly shook his head and pursed his lips. “Then, nothing,” he finished.  “I woke up here.  What happened?”

 

You slumped slightly, part relief, part regret weighing down your shoulders.  There was so much you wanted to say but the right words escaped you.  Instead, you wandered to the bench and retrieved a glass of water.  “Your brothers brought you in.  Whatever hit you did some major damage.  I…fixed it.  As best I could.  Just stay still.  Watch your stitches,” you murmured as you handed him the drink.  

 

Immediately, you regretted the motion.  Holding the glass of water extended toward him gave you away.  Your hand shook, almost violently.  Don stared at the trembling water, a frown wrinkling his brow, before he accepted the glass.  

 

“Are _you_ alright?” he asked softly.  His hand hesitated for a moment, his finger brushing lightly against yours.  

 

You cleared your throat and tried to think of something to say.  The only thing you managed to get out was a hoarse, “Fine.”

 

Don frowned and held the water gingerly.  Then, he took a sip and said, “C’mon, you look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

 

Your stomach started churning.  “I—” An image—Don, glassy-eyed, lifeless—flashed in your mind.

 

Don chuckled nervously.  “Zombie, maybe?  Think I need some brains?"

 

You choked.  Then, you fled.  

 

Forbearance deserted you in the face of Donnie’s gentle teasing.  He called your name but you didn’t answer.  How could you?  How could _he_ , for that matter?  Did he not know what he meant to the team, to you?  How could he make light of such an event?  Maybe he didn't realize the truth of it... As loath as you were to tell him or his brothers, Donatello had nearly died, that much was certain.  Instead of asking him the questions pounding through your mind, you ran.  Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes but you managed to keep them from falling just yet.  Dodging Raphael’s questions and Leo’s concern, you shut yourself into the only comforting place you could think of: Don’s lab.  

 

The gentle smell of ozone and the whir of familiar machinery nearly masked your soft sobbing.  You didn’t have it in you to face Don or his family.  Fatigue sat heavy on your shoulders.  Tucking yourself into a small, secluded corner, you let tears fall until they ran out and you slipped into sleep.

 

\- | -

 

Your next awakening was more gentle than the first.  The reassuring smell of Don’s lab was the first thing you registered.  Then, the well-known sounds of Don’s tinkering filtered in.  You stretched slightly and almost smiled.  Perhaps you’d fallen asleep while he worked again, as you so often did—

 

Wait.  

 

The events of yesterday returned and you shot to your feet.  Donnie was not supposed to be here.  He wasn’t supposed to be out of bed for the next week, at the least; his wounds were too deep.  Yet you spun, and there he sat, looking more at home at his workbench than anything in the world.  When he heard you, he glanced up and let the machinery he tinkered with clatter to the bench.  

 

“Donnie…” you breathed.  

 

He raised a hand, almost timidly.  “Hey, uh, good morning.  Or afternoon, I guess.”

 

You rubbed at bloodshot eyes, then wrapped your arms around yourself.  You hadn’t forgotten exactly how you’d left and what you’d yet to say.

 

“So,” Don started. 

 

“ _Why_ are you out of bed?” you croaked. “Why are you here?  You should be resting!”

 

Don chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his head.  “I’m pretty sure I could ask the same of you.  Five hours in the Needle Room then you sleep on the floor?”

 

You felt pink heat steal over your cheeks.  “I…wasn’t thinking.  I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here without you,” you mumbled.

 

“Don’t—” Donnie staggered to his feet and wobbled a few paces.  You dashed forward and yanked his uninjured arm over your shoulder, allowing him to finish.  “Don’t be sorry,” he continued softly. “You are always welcome here.”

 

You were very aware of his sudden proximity, of the gentle rise and fall of his breath and the look on his face.  Tentatively, his tongue wet his lips and he shifted, pressing himself in a long line against you and raising his injured hand to your face.  One digit traced the dark circles under your eyes, concern plain in his expression.

 

“I think I’m the one who should apologize,” he confessed.  “It…wasn’t called for, what I said.  I didn’t realize that making a joke would make you cry. It wasn't even a good joke. ”

 

You let out a ragged sigh and relaxed against him. “You nearly died,” you whispered, “and I couldn’t imagine life if you had. Hearing you brush it off so easily made it hard to forget how close you came to…I-”  You gulped.  “You mean the world to me. I’m glad you’re alright.”  

 

For a moment, Don was silent.  Then, he drew back and pressed a kiss to your forehead.  The motion struck you so that you barely responded at all when he kissed each of your cheeks in turn.

 

“It’s ok,” he echoed, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

 

Your eyes burned hot again and you threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his unharmed shoulder.  Stoic as you were, you refused to let any more tears come.  Instead, in a small frayed voice, you demanded, “Don’t you _ever_ do that again.”

 

Don scoffed and wrapped his arms around you.  “If I’m ever stupid enough to do so, I have a secret weapon.” You released him partially and squinted suspiciously. “I have you,” he murmured.

 

Gingerly, you helped Don back to his workbench and eased him into his chair.  When at last he blew out a tense, pained breath, he settled back into his seat.  You bent, pressing a soft, heated kiss to his lips.

 

People could say ‘I love you’ in so many ways.  You were old enough to know that ‘You mean the world to me’ was one.  You were wise enough to realize that ‘I have you’ was just the same.  And, so was Donatello.  The world may have been crumbling but even in the most desperate of times, there could be found a happiness that such ‘I love you’ can bring.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first reader piece and first foray into this fandom, though I've been in it for a long time :) Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> *if you've read this before, I did some re-editing. If you're reading it for the first time, I hope it was alright!


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